


Death and All His friends

by SilhouettedBowTie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (not what you think) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood, Courtship, Death, Gothic, Gothic Romance, Hannibal is still a cannibal, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 04:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16485776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilhouettedBowTie/pseuds/SilhouettedBowTie
Summary: In which Hannibal Lecter courts Death himself.





	Death and All His friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merrythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/gifts).



> For Merry,  
> Have this spooky fic befitting of this spooky time. 
> 
> Sincerely, your now-not-so-Secret Spooky not-quite-Santa.

_“Who said death is dead? He's fully alive, traveling around the world, throwing shadows and soaking in the sun. Visiting the young and old; placing bets and dicing regrets, for the worse or a better off place.”_

\- Anthony Liccione

 

 

 

* * *

 

At the time of his very first kill, Hannibal Lecter was a barely a teenager.

The victim was Paul Momund, the local butcher of the quiet French town that he and his adoptive family had lived. The man was a terribly repulsive to begin with, filthy in both practice and in character, however it was Momund’s treatment of Hannibal's family that finally spurred Hannibal into action.

(Hannibal figured that it wasn't so much murder as what it was pest control.)

One night, Hannibal had followed this particular pest into the freezing room located in the back section of the Butcher’s, where all the bovine cadavers hung like macabre pendulums. Hannibal was quiet and patient in his pursuit- never before had he felt such calm and such certainty.

(When Hannibal was done slitting the man’s throat with his very own meat cleaver he had strung up the lifeless body along with the rest of the pigs. Although most of the blood had rushed out at once when Hannibal had cut the carotid artery in the neck a steady pool had begun to form underneath the body, the constant drips of what remaining blood there was perfectly matched the beat of Hannibal’s heart.)

The first time Hannibal had noticed the hooded figure was after Hannibal he had finished placing the meat cleaver down by the body. The now dead vermin that had formerly been Paul Momund.

He did not directly see it, but he could see it’s vague silhouette in his peripherals- entirely motionless, standing amidst the deceased livestock. When Hannibal had turned to see what was there, it was gone. The only hint that there had been something may have been there in the first place was the subtle swinging of the pigs it had been standing amidst. The pendulums of the dead ticking ever onward. 

Hannibal was certain that whatever he had thought he’d seen, there was no possibility it was human; he had ensured that pursuit wasn't possible, and that there hadn't been any prying eyes to witness either's entry.  
And so, he put it down to an overactive imagination after committing such an act, his senses and his brain kicked into overdrive, and had already begun walking back to the freezing room door.

 

If he had been listening closer as he left the room, Hannibal may have heard the breathless chuckle in his wake.

 

* * *

 

Decades after the fateful night with Momund the Butcher, Hannibal had found his way to Florence. It was here that he was finally free to be true to his nature- free of restraining his more macabre desires for the sake of sparing Chiyoh and Aunt Murasaki from any potential repercussions.

 

Hannibal had left Castle Lecter, but the hooded figure hadn’t left him.

 

The moment Hannibal killed- without fail- the hooded figure appeared shortly thereafter. He could never look at the figure directly- every attempt he had made at trying to look at it resulted in the figure vanishing as quickly as what it had appeared, only to appear back in his peripherals once more after he had conceded in his inability to witness the silhouetted form.

 

There was _something_ there. Something that wasn’t quite human- Hannibal was certain of it.

Initially, he had been significantly less confident on the matter; unlike what he had thought as a child, it certainly was not a figment of his imagination- Hannibal was far too grounded in reality to indulge in such frivolity- and yet it also was most definitely not something tangible; not in the traditional sense, at the very least.

 

Regardless of the true nature of his spectator- whether it was an agent of death or death itself- it was a member of Hannibal’s audience and, if nothing else, Hannibal knew how to put on a performance.

 

Along with allowing himself to indulge in his own grandiose whims, this solitary audience member was  the main motivation for Hannibal to steadily increase the dramatics and showmanship of his kills- carefully crafting and sculpting something _beautiful,_ for both himself and his voyeur.

Hannibal was a maestro, and his victims were all members of his melancholy orchestra.

 

As it were, the body lying before Hannibal had in fact been a maestro- an utterly abhorrent excuse for one, but a maestro nonetheless.

It really was such a shame- the perfectly varnished wood of the stage he bled out on was sure to be stained.

Hannibal sighed as he wrenched the maestro’s baton out of the maestro’s throat. Tonight could have been a perfect night, were it not for this man’s butchering of Beethoven’s fifth*.

 

Regularly, it was now that Hannibal would begin setting up his canvas- readying himself to produce an accurate portrait of this man, using the maestro’s baton as his brush.

Tonight was different. Tonight, Hannibal simply waited for his guest.

 

As with every other time, he didn’t have to wait long. This figure was quite punctual, and Hannibal couldn’t help but appreciate that about them.  
To the furthest edge the left side of Hannibal’s peripheral vision, there it stood. Motionless, as always. Just watching. Just Hannibal, the body, the moonlight flooding in from the skylight, and the hooded figure on the stage.

 

“Considering how long we’ve been acquaintances, it’s quite discourteous that you haven’t introduced yourself to me yet,” chided Hannibal in an amiable tone of voice. He had angled his neck in such a way that whilst he wasn’t looking directly at the figure- if the figure were to vanish it really would be quite the hassle to kill again tonight for the sake of striking up a conversation- it was _just_ off from his direct line of sight that he couldn’t make out the fine details. Just a vague, humanoid shape.

 

“Is that what we are? Acquaintances?” Responded the figure, sounding like they were something akin to amused.  
The voice seemed to be male- it was a voice that was rough, yet soft. A Winter’s sunset of a voice.

 

“We have known one another for a decade. If not acquaintances, what would you call us?”

 

“If it’s been that long then at this point I’d like to refer to us friends,” said the figure as it walked towards Hannibal- although it was just a fluid motion that the figure may as well have floated. Perhaps it did.

 

“As a baseline, friendship requires communication. We haven’t spoken to one another until right now.”

 

“Not verbally, no. But we have in other ways.” The figure nodded towards the corpse, the blood looking like ink wherever the moonlight hits it.

 

Hannibal hummed in acknowledgement, somewhat flattered that his work was getting the recognition that he had hoped.

“Even still," began Hannibal once more, "you have hidden things from me that I have exposed to you, willingly or not- I haven’t even seen your face. For all I know, you haven’t got one,” Hannibal commented flatly. At no point throughout their many encounters had Hannibal been able to discern any hint of a facial feature in the blank space that was the opening of the hood; only darkness occupied that space, it seemed.   
This was something that troubled Hannibal deeply; not in fear of who- or what- was hidden within, but rather out of the frustration that there was such a vital detail that Hannibal simply did not know.

The figure scoffed at this, “I have a face, Hannibal.”

At this point, the figure was standing with arms reach of Hannibal. It was now that Hannibal became aware of just how bitterly _cold_ he was; this new friend of his —although it was more appropriate to describe him as an old friend- seemed to have the chill rolling off of him.

 

To Hannibal, however, it wasn’t an unwelcome cold- in the strangest of ways, it was comforting. Comforting like standing in a freezing room.

"There's only one way to find out," announced Hannibal as he slowly reached out his hand towards the lip of the hood.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry, I hope you're liking it so far!! Working on this has been a great pleasure, and I have you to thank for the inspiration and motivation! I greatly look forward to further working on this to it's conclusion!! I promise the next chapter will have actual-Hannigram-content. This is just the beginning, after all. ;)
> 
> To those reading this who aren't Merry, thanks for reading this! I hope you all enjoyed this, too!


End file.
